The Limits of Logic
by frustratedstudent
Summary: Modern AU. The trouble begins when Bossuet manages to rent an apartment for just a few thousand pesos a month in downtown Manila. This can't be right...
1. Chapter 1

_A/N: Here's my personal challenge. The Les Mis characters in their very own Asian horror special. For anyone familiar with Filipino horror stories, or the Shake, Rattle, and Roll formula, here's to you guys. This is slightly related to the continuum of "Cities We Call Home" and "Monsoon Night", but it's again, not necessary to read those to get this. _

_Disclaimer: I do not own any of the characters from "Les Miserables"; they all belong to Victor Hugo. Likewise, I am thankful I do not own the preternatural entities here, they are an unfortunate part of public domain and folklore. _

**THE LIMITS OF LOGIC**

**Part 1: The Corner Apartment**

When all is said, done, and purged, it is generally agreed that the trouble all began when Bossuet had rented an apartment at what could only be described as an unholy rate.

"Either there is something wrong with this place, or you're the luckiest bastard to get a fully furnished apartment, downtown, for just nine thousand pesos a month!" Feuilly points out as he helps Bossuet shake out an old rug that had graced the entrance of the studio apartment. "For all we know the place has leaks or is condemned or something—"

"I'm not about to complain, honestly," Bossuet says. "At least I can sell off some of the furniture for a little more cash."

"The chairs, the tables, maybe even the bed...but this one will be a challenge to get a buyer for," Eponine chimes in as she pulls the cloth covering off an old wooden chest stowed in a corner. She wrinkles her nose at the reek of camphor that seems to permeate the box. "Why are you moving out of Joly and Chetta's place anyway?"

"i need to be closer to the firm," Bossuet says. The last thing he wants is to lose yet another job opportunity thanks to tardiness, which is becoming a clear and present danger nowadays thanks to some brilliant politician's idea to revamp the roads all over the metropolis. '_Anyway it should be an experience,' _he decides. He has been living with them for so long to the point he's quite forgotten how it is to be on his own, so he is already aware of how steep this learning curve can actually be.

That is a problem for tomorrow. Tonight, he is happy to engage in a more masculine version of nesting, and to let his friends make a party of it. As if to emphasize the point, Eponine energetically shoves the chest onto a cart of items that Courfeyrac and Gavroche are about to bring down to the first floor storage room. In the meantime, Jehan and Azelma are rearranging the living room and taking advantage of the newly freed up spaces. Marius and Cosette are cleaning out the sleeping nook, leaving Bahorel and Grantaire to apply 'ergonomic' theories to putting the kitchen in order. Enjolras has taken on the task of refurbishing the bathroom, while Combeferre is organizing Bossuet's meagre book collection. Joly and Musichetta have made it their responsibility to organize the closet, using the same system they have all come to rely on over the years.

"Ever think of putting some decor here?" Jehan calls to him.

"What sort of decor?" Bossuet asks.

"Something ethnic, or maybe given that this place is so poky, something colourful." Jehan suggests.

"Maybe some nice hanging for the blank wall there," Grantaire says, pointing to a plain white panel near the apartment's sleeping nook.

"Surprise me," Bossuet quips. He's always trusted his friends' aesthetics and quirks more than his own taste after all. "Color me unique, people."

"Are you sure _that_ is a good idea?" Azelma asks. "He might come up with something like another odd installation in the middle of the living room-"

Everyone laughs at the memory of one of Grantaire's wilder illustrations of _'the ills of imperialism'_, which involved setting up an oversized sandwich in front of an embassy. Even if this adventure ended in some jail time and fines just days prior to the hugest typhoon to hit the country, it was definitely an incident for the history books. '_A story sans regrets,' _Bossuet says before going to unpack his boxes.

By nine pm everything in the apartment is set up, and the rest of the evening is given over to drinking and chatting, up until till Grantaire calls it a night and curls up on the floor, giving Courfeyrac the problem of hauling him out. It is everyone else's cue to make their way home; thankfully they are all still living within half an hour of each other, give or take delays thanks to traffic and flooding.

Bossuet's bedtime routine is fairly straightforward, and within a quarter of an hour he turns on his new electric fan and stretches out in his cushy sleeping nook. When he shuts his eyes he can hear everything, from the soft whirring of the electric fan a few feet away, and even the honking of car horns on the boulevard below. It is a noisy tranquillity that almost lulls him to sleep, until he hears three distinct taps someplace in the darkness.

He freezes for a moment, wondering if the sound is from the first risings of his REM sleep, or whatever his friends call the dreaming state. He shuts his eyes and takes a deep breath when the tapping comes again, sure and rhythmic. '_Tak-tak-tak'._

Immediately Bossuet reaches out and turns off the electric fan. He knows the signs of mechanical failure when he hears them and he's not about to have another appliance blow up in his face.

Predictably, there is nothing wrong with the electric fan, but Bossuet gets it exchanged anyway for one in a different color.

"It's probably just a case of vermin," Joly suggests when they and Combeferre meet up the next day at the train station near the appliance store. "You might want to get that checked out."

"If not vermin, then lizards. They do get quite big even in this part of Manila," Combeferre reminds him. "You don't want to flush out something friendly."

Bossuet sighs at the possibility of these non-sentient roommates. "Well better that than bad neighbours. The only way to deal with those is an eviction notice."

Combeferre and Joly exchange looks. "Bossuet, no one else lives on your floor. We checked on our way up," Joly tells him.

"What?"

Combeferre shrugs. "Upstairs you've got a noisy family with triplets. Below is a whole troop of call center workers, and of course they are usually out at night. The rooms to your left, right, and across you are vacant, and aside from those there's only a broom closet on your floor."

"Does my reputation for domestic calamities already precede me?" Bossuet jokes as he begins counting out what change he has for a ticket. Nevertheless the part of his mind that's a paralegal is sifting through all kinds of possibilities. An unresolved litigation? Threats? Perhaps a family feud? He toys with them for a few more moments till the impatient teller behind a glass pane reminds him that he _does_ have to state his destination if she is to give him a ticket.

The matter slips out of his mind until he stumbles home at past 1 in the morning, to the sound of the triplets wailing restlessly upstairs. As soon as he gets his key in the door and pushes it open, he hears that tapping from someplace in the darkness.

Something deep in the pit of his gut tells him that this thing is actually out to _greet_ him.

Over the next few days he expends a great deal to bring about silence in his apartment. He tries bug spray, ant traps, rat traps, and every other gizmo he can find in the arsenal versus vermin. He borrows some money from Joly and Musichetta to get the services of an exterminator. When the noises persist he tries earplugs, soundproofing, and even borrowing the white noise machine that Jehan once found in a rummage sale. _That_ one earns him a complaint from the neighbours below.

He wonders why no one complains about the triplets, who seem to be crying louder and louder every night. Then again, they look to be about five or six months old, teething age, so heaven knows.

Combeferre seems to have other ideas, or so he says one day when the rains catch some of them on a shopping trip and force them to take refuge in his place. "Don't get me wrong here; I'm not a father or a child development expert, but I've done my paediatrics rotations and I don't think that _well_ children should be that fussy," he points out.

Bossuet shrugs even as he notices Eponine seemingly flinching at these words. "Ponine? What do you think of that?"

"No, it shouldn't be the case," Eponine replies, sounding a little tired and far off even for someone who's just had a cup of coffee. She knows what she's talking about; she has younger siblings and her work at a community center brings her in contact with children all the time.

Bossuet nods even as he watches Eponine cross the room to where Enjolras is busy arranging some sort of conference call on his phone. She practically falls asleep the moment she is back to back with her partner, and he leans ever so slightly against her to lend some support. It appears to have been a hard week at work for everyone, but Bossuet knows better than to ask. "Maybe they hear the noises too," he tells Combeferre.

"I wouldn't rule it out," Combeferre agrees.

That night Bossuet goes upstairs, with the intention of having a friendly chat with the neighbours. Much to his surprise, the apartment is locked. There are no lights, no noises to suggest that the family is in. '_Most likely they are on vacation,' _he decides, and he jots down a note on his hand to meet this family as soon as they return.

When he returns to his place, everything is silent. He goes about barefoot and hardly dares to breathe, in hopes of catching any clue as to this disturbance. It's about 2am when he finally gives up and decides to go to sleep. He turns off his lights and sits in his sleeping nook when he sees something dart past the frosted glass windows. Before he can leap up to take a look, the shadow is gone.

Last time he checked, he lived on the fifth floor, and it was a straight drop past the glass.

The neighbours have not returned. The tapping is still there and perhaps growing just that much louder. Sometimes Bossuet is sure it is coming from the thin air, sometimes he believes it is just underneath the plaster, and one terrible time, he hears it right next to his ear. That night he loses no time in heading down to the convenience store, drinking coffee till the sun is up.

That day he manages to get a hold of Feuilly, Bahorel, Enjolras, and Eponine. If there's anything that needs finding in this city, these four know how to get it. Bahorel has most of the capacities of an engineer, even without the necessary degree. Enjolras has a streak of a historian and he has access to a plethora of information thanks to his work. Eponine and Feuilly know their ways about the city; it is best not openly explained how they came across this knowledge.

They agree to meet for pizza in Bahorel's apartment. When Bossuet gets there, Bahorel is still ordering in the pizza, while Feuilly and Enjolras are studying an old map. Eponine is exhausted and curled up in a large chair. "Everything alright?" Bossuet asks.

Bahorel shakes his head as he hangs up the phone. "The blueprints for your apartment building are, to put it politely, _shit_."

Bossuet whistles; he's used to strong language from Bahorel but for him to outright describe something as such from the get-go is quite a new step indeed. "How?"

Bahorel unrolls some sheets onto the table. "The piping for one thing. It isn't up to building code standards. I don't like the fact that there are so many crawl spaces."

Feuilly looks up at the mention of crawl spaces while Enjolras merely frowns. Bossuet shrugs even though the meaning is as clear to him as it is to them. Who knows what's in those nooks and crannies? "It's not the only messed up building in Manila," Bossuet says.

"In more ways than one." Everyone turns to where Eponine is stirring in her seat. She rubs her temples as she sits up. "It's an old city. Very old. It was damaged in the war-"

"Eponine, _really?" _Enjolras asks her, his disbelief all too evident in his stare. "There must be a more rational explanation than that."

"The thing is, the rational clues don't make sense at least when put altogether," Eponine points out. She gets up and points to the map. "It's downtown. Not exactly the quietest place, on any plane."

Enjolras shakes his head. "There must be some other reason."

"I'm willing to look down every possibility," Eponine retorts tersely. "I've _seen_ it before, in the underpasses. Charms, stories, incantations-"

"You used to laugh at them."

"Some, not all."

Feuilly holds up his hands before the two can launch into another heated debate. "You both have a point, okay?" He then looks squarely at Bossuet. "No one had any stories, warnings to tell you when you said you were renting the place? No histories say of unexplained death?"

Bossuet shakes his head even as he already has that feeling of dread creeping up his spine. He knows what Feuilly is getting at. He knows what these thoughts do to Eponine's mind. He looks to Enjolras, ever the arbitrator in most other situations, and sees him seemingly looking far off. "What do you think, Chief?" he asks.

"You may as well not leave any stone unturned," Enjolras says at last. "Just don't do anything unnecessary that might make you lose your deposit."

"Understood," Bossuet says. Enjolras usually has the most practical ideas after all; though he is known as a theoretician he is first and foremost a problem solver. Bahorel and Feuilly seem fine with this line of thought but Eponine remains sceptical, to the point of tossing a wadded up napkin at Enjolras' head.

The rest of the night passes easily enough with pizza and talk about the ins and outs of the city, and how honestly it's no longer the same place that they all came to as children. It's pleasant talk, and for a little while Bossuet feels like he's twelve years old again and wobbling around the tarmac just minutes after arriving in Manila for the first time. From where he'd stood, he'd seen the late afternoon shadows stopping just short of his feet, and he'd laughed then, knowing that the darkness could not lay any sort of hands on him.

It's not what he is thinking later that night, when he's curled up under his blanket and the tapping sound starts again. This time it is as if there are eyes boring past the thin fabric, and foolish him, he raises the sheet just in time to see the mattress dip right next to his feet.

When he shows up at Bahorel's apartment ten minutes later, his friend does not even need to ask questions before letting him in.


	2. Chapter 2

_Sorry for taking long to update this! But this is visceral, hard hitting stuff, and I will post a trigger warning here: this chapter deals with mental illness and child death. _

**Part 2: The Rhyme**

One of the things that Enjolras has gotten used to is Eponine's tendency to move around a lot in her sleep. Much of the time it helps to simply keep his arms around her when they are both in bed; she likes how safe she feels when he does that. Sometimes though it isn't exactly enough and Enjolras wakes up to feel her elbow digging in his ribs, her feet kicking his shins, or her hands blindly reaching for his. He's learned how to manage these episodes, exactly how to wake her up and hold her till she calms down and drifts back to the world of the waking.

So when he wakes up at some unknown hour and sees her sitting up in bed, clutching the blankets as if for dear life, he cannot help but feel a frisson of surprise and worry. "Eponine? Are you awake?" he asks as he nudges her. It wouldn't be surprising to find her still wide awake, mostly thanks to the fact that they have just gotten home from their impromptu party at Bossuet's new apartment.

She nods briefly and yawns. "Did you hear that?"

"Hear what?"

"Something. It sounded like a child laughing."

Enjolras reaches over to check their alarm clock and finds that it's only two in the morning. This is no hour for children, or at least most children, to be awake. Still, they live in a city that is unlearning sleep, and they've heard stranger things in these parts. "Probably one of the neighbours," he says.

"I don't know, it sounded pretty close," she whispers before yawning again. "That, or theta waves are messing with me again."

"Theta waves?"

"You know, that state between sleeping and waking, just when you're drifting off? You can't quite tell sometimes what you're really hearing or not"

He nods, remembering all the odd things both of them and some of their friends have experienced in that state. "Well you need to get some actual sleep. We have a long day tomorrow."

"Yeah. Sorry about waking you," she says as she squeezes his arm before lying back down again and pulling the blankets over her head, as if the thin cloth can block out any further disturbances. For good measure he snuggles closer to her such that they are spooned together. This seems to work as soon she's drifting off to sleep again and her breathing is light and easy, enough to lull him into slumber.

When they wake again, it's six in the morning, just the right hour for them to begin their day. Eponine has an early meeting at the halfway house where she works, so Enjolras decides to commute with her and tag along for a little while before leaving for his own appointments at his own workplace. When they get to the halfway house, some of the place's youngest denizens are already playing in the yard. Two girls are sitting on the stoop playing a sort of clapping game. Their hands meet high above their heads, in front of their faces, palm up, and palm down, keeping time with their high pitched voices chanting, '_Mama, Papa, I want a piece of bread. Sister, brother, I want some coffee-'_

"I haven't heard that one in years," Enjolras remarks nonchalantly as he steps ahead of Eponine in order to open the door for her. He notices the wry, slightly startled expression on her face as she casts a glance at the children. "Eponine? What is it?"

"Also tripping down memory lane," she laughs almost a little too quickly. "Or not. I could have sworn I dreamt about it."

"You sure it was a dream and not the theta state?" he quips.

She rolls her eyes and punches his arm. "Next time you talk in your sleep, _Miguel,_ I'm bringing out a recorder. You should really hear what you sound like when you're in that state."

"I talk in my sleep?" he asks, affronted at this revelation as well as by her using his given name. He picks up the morning paper, which has been carelessly tossed by the newspaper man into the plant box near the stoop. As usual the front page is a smattering of dire news of every sort, ranging from the headline decrying the still ongoing misdeeds of legislators all the way to a small item regarding a cemetery being dug up to make way for a shopping complex in a small town. He gives this last article a double-take. "Guess what's happening down south?" he says as he hands the broadsheet to Eponine.

Eponine glances through the article and shrugs. "I haven't been back there since I was a little girl. I don't think I have relatives there anymore. I don't think we even have anyone to visit in the graveyard."

"Another thing run over in the name of development," Enjolras says dryly as they go to her small cubicle in what passes for the house's administrative office. He helps her set up her things and straighten up the space before he reviews the article agai. "Besides I think there's an item or two in the sanitation code that might prevent this building."

"You nerd."

"That's why I'm in my job, Eponine."

"And you're good at it," she says before kissing his cheek. "Now scoot. I have work to do and so do you."

"Alright. Later then," he replies before hugging her briefly and heading out of the halfway house. There's something incredibly satisfying about this open ended phrase, at least when it's Eponine in the picture. Normally Enjolras hates putting things off, and thanks to this the word 'later' has always grated on his ears since his boyhood. Nowadays though the word takes on something of a promise of good things to come: of late nights dreaming about changing the world, of falling asleep to her voice whispering 'I love you', and of course of waking up next to her and being ready to face yet another day of wonders.

Tonight though he wakes up to the unmistakable sound of her whimpering, that sound that warns him that she is in the throes of another nightmare and could kick out and flail about anytime. He shakes her urgently. "Eponine! Wake up!"

Her eyes fly open, dark and almost unseeing in the half-light of their room. "Where are they?" she whispers. "I can hear them."

"Hear what?" he asks, but she simply shudders as if coming to herself again, and then she curls up under his chin. He knows better than to ask so he holds her tightly and kisses the top of her head when she clutches at him the way she does on the rare days when she finds that talking about the past is too much for her to bear. Later that night while she is fast asleep, he lies awake and wonders what memories have surfaced this time. While he is very familiar with the narrative, both from her own telling and from the scars on her body, he is also painfully aware that he can only imagine the full weight and color of her story. It's why he tries so hard to fill their days together with something more beautiful, but even that can only go so far.

The next morning when he goes with her to the halfway house, she cannot even look at the children playing in the garden, skipping rope as they chant their favourite rhymes. She bites her lip hard as she heads straight to her cubicle. "Don't ask, please," she says as she sits down at her small desk. "Just a damn coincidence, Enjolras."

"Right," he says, crossing his arms. He's not superstitious, he's not one to believe in omens or most things paranormal, but he knows better than to just chalk everything up to mere chance.

"I'll be fine," she insists. "It's just a stupid dream."

He only shakes his head before bidding her goodbye and heading out for his own appointments. None of her nightmares have left her in such a haggard state before. He decides to discreetly switch their supply of coffee with decaf just for tonight; he's heard that caffeine can worsen vivid dreaming. Yet once again he wakes up to her grabbing his arm and squirming away from the edge of their bed, and it takes more effort than usual to calm her down.

Eponine never lets on what she dreams about, that is if she's dreaming at all. However Enjolras isn't blind to the other signs over the next few days: her trembling hands, the way she can hardly even look at the children she works with, and of course the way she keeps yawning and nodding off even in noisy places. By the end of the week, he's sure she's practically on autopilot.

"Are you sure you don't want to see a doctor about this?" he asks one morning when he finds her asleep next to a whole bottle of energy drinks. It's been more than a week since this trouble began, and he's sure that she's gotten only less than 48 or so hours of sleep in all this time.

She glares at him. "I'm not sick."

"You're not sleeping. I'm not a doctor but I know that can't be a good sign," he points out.

She shakes her head. "Don't make me go through it again. If you love me, you wouldn't."

Enjolras flinches at the word 'again', knowing what she's referring to. They hardly speak of that spell in her life, of those weeks in one of the city's most infamous wards when her parents had almost given her up for lost, of the months of doctor's appointments, pills, and teetering on the edge with every shift of mood and thought. '_She's come a long way since then,' _he reminds himself, but the sight of her so pale and jumpy makes him wonder if that spectre is surfacing before his eyes.

"What am I going to do then? I refuse to let you go about like this," he retorts. "What on earth is going on there?"

"It's none of your goddamn business, Enjolras!" she hisses. "I was afraid you'd ask this."

"Only because I'm concerned." After all, he's been waking up too to calm her down, but unlike her he can fall asleep again.

She takes a few deep breaths, as if wrestling with herself. "Can you try to believe me when I say I'm not going crazy?" she asks.

He swallows hard but he has to nod for both their sakes. "What then?"

"I'm...hearing things," she whispers. "It's _not_ a voice telling me to do something or to believe something. Not that."

"Then what is it?" he asks, now genuinely confused.

"Voices asking me why I forgot them, why I left them behind..." She takes a few deep, shuddering breaths. "Children. Two little boys. I don't know _why_. They act like I know them but maybe I do, but you know that sometimes my memories are so goddamned addled...I think that Gavroche and Zelma know more than I do, really"

It occurs to Enjolras that he's seeing the worst thing of all; that Eponine herself is worryiing that she is going mad. Yet he's heard too that the truly ill do not exactly know they are ill, especially in the earliest stages. Before he can dare to delve into this, he hears his phone as well as Eponine's going off with new messages. "Bossuet wants to meet us later at Feuilly's place. It's about that apartment of his," he says after he reads this new text missive.

Eponine manages a ghost of a smile. "Bet he's got questions. Something was fishy about that place, beginning with the rent."

"Indeed." The mention of their friend's new accommodations is a little troubling, considering that the beginning of Eponine's nocturnal troubles coincides with their first visit to this place. '_Post hoc ergo propter hoc,' _Enjolras reminds himself, but something in his gut warns him otherwise when he sees Eponine yawn again and almost fall asleep right where she is sitting.

The conversation later that evening with Bossuet takes a strange turn, with talk of ghosts and other things paranormal. Thankfully they do not dwell on that topic too long and the talk turns towards other more pleasant memories of the city, but Eponine is far too tired to really participate and so they call it a night rather early.

He carries her to their bed, and is alarmed to find how seemingly light and limp she is in his arms. "Please don't dream tonight," he whispers in her ear when he tucks her in.

"Wish it was just dreaming," she mumbles almost incoherently. She clings to him with a grip born of desperation as well as fear. "Don't let them get me, please."

"No one is going to harm you..." he tries to reassure her but she's drifting off before he can finish his sentence. He holds her tightly but what can he do if perhaps the danger is from within her own mind, from the scars that refuse to fade.

And that's when he hears the soft chanting, almost as if the voices are being carried away on a breeze. '_Mama, Papa, I want a piece of bread. Sister, brother, I want some coffee-'_ The voices aren't cheery but haunting, almost mocking. Worst of all, they are much too close to his ear for comfort.

Enjolras sits up in bed, looking around frantically for the source of this eerie sound. "Where are you?" he shouts. Next to him, Eponine is flailing about and tangling herself in the blankets, so he has to move fast before she can inadvertently smother herself. He has to get out of bed and pull her with him in an effort to extricate her from the now dangerous cocoon of sheets. As he does so his foot brushes against two soft bumps on the floor. In his shock he stumbles on them, sending him and Eponine to the ground.

It is there that Eponine seemingly comes to, judging by how she suddenly moans and clutches at where she's landed hard on her bottom. "Did we just fall out of bed?" she murmurs.

"No, not really," Enjolras manages to say, though even he himself cannot trust the sound of his own voice. He reaches for one of the bumps and holds it up to the half-light coming from a nearby streetlamp. It's a tiny red rubber shoe, no longer than his own palm.

Eponine has also found another shoe, but this time in blue. "I know these shoes..." she whispers before grabbing the shoe that Enjolras is holding and flinging it aside. "I'm sorry! I'm so sorry! I didn't mean it, I swear!" she gasps as she curls up in a ball on the floor, wailing incoherently.

Enjolras has to keep an arm around her even as he searches blindly on the bedside table for his phone. He waits for Eponine's sobbing and shrieking to stop and for slumber to mercifully claim her again. His hands are shaking as he searches his directory for one particular number.

Thankfully it only takes a couple of rings before the person on the other end of the line picks up. "Azelma? Yes, it's me, Enjolras. This is an odd thing to ask-yes, I know what time it is. I just need to know something...how many brothers and sisters do you _really_ have?"


	3. Chapter 3

_A/N: Sorry if this has taken long, guys. Have had to deal with some real life horrors before writing this piece of work. _

**3: The Mirror**

If there is a relative that Jehan gets to see often, it's his great-grandmother who lives four hours south of the city. Maybe it's because she's too old and wearied to care much about politics and shocking verses, maybe it's out of sympathy, or maybe it's just because she has a kind heart, but she is the one Prouvaire who has not yet thought of disowning the young poet. It helps too that she likes Azelma and is all too eager to bond with the girl over centuries-old recipes and cross-stitch patterns.

So really, how is Jehan supposed to refuse when one weekend, towards the end of his and Azelma's visit, his great-grandmother drags them in front of the large silver mirror hanging at one end of the second floor corridor? "Bring it with you, _hijo_," she says, clasping his warm hand in her bony, slightly clammy one.

"Are you sure?" he asks, wondering if he heard her right.

"I can't bring everything to the new condo," she says, putting one wrinkled hand on her left hip, the bad one. "It's a waste to leave it here; you know how old it is."

"Are you sure my parents or none of my uncles don't want to have it?" Jehan asks. He can't imagine that mirror hanging anywhere else but in this hallway of this ancient house. It's been there for as long as he could remember, it was probably there even when his own father was a boy, and perhaps even longer than that.

"You and Azelma should have something from me," the crone insists. "For your new home."

Jehan sees Azelma go very red at these words. It has only been a few weeks since he and Azelma decided to share an apartment, and already everyone is acting as if this will be a permanent arrangement. Jehan doesn't mind, though he knows better than to pressure Azelma into agreeing with him. As a rule the Thenardier siblings take things one day, or at most one month at a time.

Nevertheless Jehan allows himself to daydream all throughout the long drive back to Manila, up until the time that he and Azelma lug the mirror up to one corner of their apartment. "I didn't have the heart to tell her we didn't know where to put it," she says as she dusts off her hands.

"We can try it here on this wall. I'll get a hook for it tomorrow," Jehan promises. The mirror is large and old, and decidedly out of place in a room splashed with colors and shapes inspired from Ginsberg's poem "Howl". The effect turns from garish to downright uncanny when Jehan gets a look into the glass and sees that it shimmers more than it reflects. Perhaps it's some trick of optics, something he can ask Combeferre or Joly about in the morning.

The next day when he comes home from work, having already bought the hook for their newest piece of decor, he finds Azelma and Musichetta making still more design sketches for another line of costumes. "Good thing we have this, so you can actually see how the designs look," he says gamely as he brings the mirror out from the corner.

Musichetta takes one look at it and frowns. "It's not big enough."

"Chetta, it's not as if we can bring a full length mirror up here," Azelma says as she gets up to help Jehan out with the decor. It takes a few minutes till they get the hook in place and hang the mirror in such a way so that it will not suddenly fall to the floor and shatter all over the place. "Looks like something more out of an old story," she says wryly as she stands in front of the glass.

"Like you could stand there with a candle...ugh, just no," Musichetta says. "I don't know if I can look at it for very long."

"Sissy," Azelma says as she takes off the lavender shawl wrapped around her shoulders and throws it over the looking glass. "There, that won't disturb you."

Musichetta sighs before checking her phone. "Hm, something's up with Bossuet's neighbours. Apparently they moved out without notice, and the landlord is asking if anyone wants their former apartment," she says.

"Uh-uh. I wouldn't take that place even if you paid me," Azelma says.

"Something is off with it," Jehan agrees. For one thing, who leases out an apartment, fully furnished, and allows for the furniture to be disposed off. '_Such as that fusty old chest in the corner,' _he thinks, remembering how difficult it was for them to move that particular item into the downstairs storage room. He'd been worried that the reek of camphor would stick to his clothes for days.

That becomes the least of his troubles when at some point after midnight they are awakened by a call on Azelma's cellphone. "Enjolras? What the hell, it's late at night!" Azelma groans into the phone. Her eyes widen as she sits up in bed. "Why are you asking about my siblings? There's me, Ponine, Gav, and...oh didn't you know about the younger two? The boys? What? Oh shit. No, Ponine wouldn't really remember. Ugh. That bad? Alright, Jehan and I will come by in the morning, so maybe that should make her feel better. Yep. Anytime. Thanks. See you two."

Jehan shivers as he watches Azelma put her phone back on their bedside table. "What happened to Enjolras and Eponine?"

"Ponine is having nightmares again," Azelma says as she pulls the blankets around her skinny shoulders. "She's dreaming about the boys."

That last sentence makes Jehan tremble even more. It is not often that Azelma speaks of the dead, especially of those two little ones. He inches closer to her and pulls her in his arms. "How old were you when they were gone?"

"Thirteen, fourteen maybe," Azelma says. "They were Maman's last babies, but I guess she got too tired to take care of them. I don't know really. Ponine did her best though, before she had to be hospitalized for that electroshock, whatever you call it."

"When she came back, the boys were already gone?" Jehan clarifies.

Azelma nods. "I think it might have been worse if she'd actually seen the accident and what happened after at the hospital. When she got back it wasn't as if she remembered much. Maybe it's good that she didn't remember much of them at all. After we buried the boys in the south, we left for Manila. Eponine didn't go to the funeral since Papa said it would be a bad idea to let her."

Jehan sighs deeply, knowing that he is probably best off trusting Azelma's judgment of the matter, but all the same he can't help but wonder if Eponine's state of oblivion is a peace that comes with a price that may be too dear for her to pay in the long run. He only hopes that Enjolras will be strong enough to help Eponine through this crisis. Jehan ponders this long after Azelma has fallen asleep, and as he looks towards the darkness, he somehow feels thankful that he cannot see his own worried and ponderous reflection in the looking glass behind the shawl.

It becomes clear to him over breakfast the next day with his friends that Eponine is doing far more than dreaming. "Like they're reaching out," she says before shoving another spoonful of _tapsilog_ in her mouth. She takes a minute to choke down her food. "But why would they do it, after all these years?"

"Maybe some disturbance?" Jehan asks. He's read the article after all of the new diggings in some southern towns, developments that have disturbed old homes, streets, and a few cemeteries. "At this point, I'm willing to look at anything," he says when he meets Enjolras' sceptical and worried look.

"That may be a distinct possibility," Enjolras finally says after a moment. "There might be other explanations though-"

"I told you, I'm not going nuts," Eponine mutters.

"I didn't say you are."

"But you're thinking it."

Jehan and Azelma roll their eyes as the other pair begin to argue; this discussion reeks too much of fatigue and fear to be considered rational. "Maybe we should call it a day. You both need your rest," Azelma chimes in.

Eponine glares at her. "Don't butt in, Azelma."

"She's right though," Jehan says, aware of the withering looks his friends are still giving him. "You'll be able to reason this out better after some shut-eye, believe me."

It takes some work to put this pair to bed, but in separate rooms; Eponine gets the bed in their room, Enjolras gets the sofa. After this, Jehan and Azelma sneak off to their respective appointments; he heads to the bookstores, she goes to a costume fitting.

It's just as well for all these bookstores that Jehan's newfound curiosity about the paranormal makes him less choosy about his choice of reading material. He buys up any reasonable looking book or pamphlet on the subject matter, determined to find the answers to Eponine's dreams and now even Bossuet's dilemma since the latter has moved out of his apartment.

He learns far more than he wants to about a whole pantheon and hierarchy of spirits, about glimpses into the afterlife, and even about portals and curses. Some of these theories seem spurious, but he knows that there must be a grain of truth or two someplace if so many people in Manila have at least one true ghost story.

Then it happens one night, when Azelma is staying out late for a reading of a play. He is home, reading a book of anecdotes while looking for something to microwave for their dinner. Just before he can pick a tray of food, the lights fizzle and crackle out over the rising din of a sudden summer shower.

Jehan shuts the refrigerator quickly to save energy before fumbling in his picket for his phone so he could warn Azelma about this power outage. As he wanders through their darkened apartment he realizes that there is something different about the view. The shawl veiling the mirror has fallen in a heap to the floor.

He picks up the shawl to replace it when he suddenly gets that cold feeling of something at his back. When he raises his eyes to the shining surface of the mirror, he sees two shapes looking back at him. Neither of them is anything close to his own visage.

Jehan throws the shawl over the mirror haphazardly before grabbing his phone as well as his keys and his wallet. Thankfully there are good hostels in this neighbourhood, and perhaps a few equally terrified friends who will only be too eager to share a room with him and Azelma, at least till morning light.


	4. Chapter 4

_A/N: The wrap-up to this horror saga...and back to sanity for them all! Thanks to everyone who's taken an interest in this weird little experiment. _

**Epilogue: Light**

Jean Valjean knows that it's exam season again when the weather starts becoming too warm for a good night's sleep and when the stores on his street start running out of energy drinks and coffee. Even the little pharmacy that Fantine has put up isn't spared from the onslaught; the refrigerator needs to be restocked at least twice a day.

So of course he does a double take when one morning, while helping Fantine check the store's inventory, he finds that they have run out of sleeping pills. "Am I reading this right?" he asks.

Fantine lets out an 'oh' of surprise when she catches sight of the item he has pointed out on their list. "You are. Is something wrong?"

"It's not usual," Jean Valjean says. "This has never happened before, not in the past two years we've been running this place."

Fantine checks the list again and hums as if she is trying to remember something. "I remember who bought the last of these. Jehan."

"Jehan Prouvaire?"

"Do we know any other?"

Jean Valjean laughs before realizing that Fantine's look is still serious. "There is something wrong."

"Jehan bought some, and so did Musichetta. Feuilly asked for a few of those too, and I remember that Courfeyrac, Bahorel and Grantaire also asked for some the day before that," Fantine points out.

Jean Valjean is silent at the mention of Cosette's close friends, the same young people he can't help but sometimes treat as if they were also children of his own. He knows of their peculiarities for things such as forbidden poetry and grilled odds and ends of meat, but these quirks rarely require anything pharmacological in nature. Something must be up if they are suddenly having trouble sleeping, especially _en masse_.

At that moment Cosette comes downstairs, all fresh and ready for another day shift at the hospital where she has recently begun working as an ER nurse. "Cosette, darling, how have your friends been?" Fantine asks her. "Some of them came here yesterday looking for sleeping pills."

Cosette's jaw drops. "It's gotten that bad?"

"What's gotten bad?" Jean Valjean asks. "A communal case of insomnia?"

Cosette's pretty face reddens, a clear sign she has divulged something she shouldn't have. "Things have been a little weird lately, well since the time we helped Bossuet move into his new apartment."

Something about Cosette's tone is haunted, as if she herself has had a touch of trouble too. "What is weird?" Jean Valjean presses on.

"I'm not sure how to explain it...but it's like something from that apartment stuck to most of us," Cosette says. "The previous owner moved out in a hurry, and so did some of the neighbours. Bossuet left for the night and stayed over at Bahorel's a few days ago. I don't know if he's slept in the apartment since then."

"What about everyone else?" Fantine asks.

"I'm not sure but there's something about a mirror in Jehan's place and everyone getting the heebie-jeebies or nightmares. I heard that Jehan, Azelma, Feuilly, Grantaire, and Courfeyrac all slept in a hostel one night since they were so frightened," Cosette shrugs and rubs her eyes. "Ghosts don't follow people, do they?"

Fantine gasps. "Where did you get such an idea, Cosette?"

"Unfortunately it's not unheard of," Jean Valjean says. As far as he knows, most spirits in the city are territorial, hovering near ancient trees and stones, or perhaps lingering where they had last assumed a corporeal form. Yet now and then there have been stories of those who prefer hosts instead of haunts. Have these youngsters inadvertently disturbed one of those?

His next clue comes in the form of Enjolras, who turns up later that afternoon looking even more pallid than usual. The sight of him is a little horrifying; he seems to have returned to the jumpy, acerbic caffeine addict he was years ago, with none of the coolness and charm that usually characterizes his manner. "Good afternoon Mr. Fauchelevent," the young man says as he barely holds back a yawn. "Have you got anything for insomnia?"

"Yes but I'm not giving any of it to you," Jean Valjean replies firmly but gently. "Cosette told me that you've all been having some difficulties lately."

"The past couple of weeks have been rough," Enjolras admits. "There's the situation with Bossuet's apartment; Cosette must have told you about it. Then something happened at Jehan and Azelma's two nights ago, bad enough for everyone to stay up."

Jean Valjean sighs at this confirmation. "Tell me, how is Eponine holding up?"

Enjolras' tired face turns grim. "She has been having very bad nightmares, but she won't get help for them," he replies in a voice that betrays his extreme worry and strain.

"Are you sure they are only nightmares, Enjolras?" Jean Valjean asks. The young man's shocked silence is the only answer he needs. Clearly he has his own internal debacle with this strange situation, one that cuts deep into his own waking world. "What does she say they are?"

"Ghosts."

"You don't believe in them."

Enjolras nods furiously. "Well except for that one night..." he mutters. "It was bad. We found baby shoes in the room, and somehow she recognized them as having belonged to her brothers. Not Gavroche. Two more little babies she had never told me about since she barely remembers them. Apparently they died suddenly when she had to be hospitalized. Now they're apparently coming back to haunt her."

Jean Valjean looks down as he takes in this disturbing narrative. "You don't know what to do for her."

"Yes, more so since none of this makes sense," Enjolras says.

"It shouldn't." Jean Valjean sighs again, knowing that there is no easy way to explain the old beliefs to someone of axioms and logic. "It's probably not haunting as much as it is attachment."

"Attachment?" Enjolras asks slowly.

"Maybe Eponine doesn't remember them consciously, but does that mean she ever stopped loving those boys?" Jean Valjean points out. He sees how the shock and horror on Enjolras' face turns into a knowing ruefulness; he of all people should know the kinds of bonds that Eponine tends to form. "What about the story of Jehan and Azelma?"

"They say it's about a mirror," Enjolras replies exasperatedly. "Jehan got it from a relative."

Jean Valjean nods before asking Enjolras a few more questions about Jehan's and Bossuet's respective situations, and then giving him a few packets of calming tea. "You probably don't need to tell Jehan this, but you have to get rid of that mirror as soon as possible."

"I see. What about Bossuet's apartment?" Enjolras inquires.

"I'll talk to him," Jean Valjean promises. He rubs his temples when Enjolras finally leaves, after promising to give him an update about Eponine's state of mind. It's never easy dealing with matters that bridge the fine line between the dead and the living.

The next morning, Jean Valjean rises early to see to some early chores before setting out alone. He brings with him a small vial of holy water and an old rosary, the latter being a gift from a priest he once knew. As he passes by a newsstand, he catches sight of a broadsheet article decrying the digging up of a cemetery in a southern town. He takes a moment to check the name of the place, and then brings out his phone to make a call.

"Good morning Eponine," Jean Valjean greets. "How did you like the tea? Good. You might want to check the Manila Inquirer's front page today." He pauses to look at the newspaper in front of him even as he listens to the harangue on the other end of the line. "I know, Enjolras told me some of it. As soon as you two can, you'd better fly south for a visit there. The fresh air would do you both good, and I think it's time for you to pay your respects. Don't worry; it's an advanced birthday present. Keep me updated and enjoy the tea. See you and Enjolras soon." Somehow the click of the phone when Eponine hangs up is reassuring, and bolsters Jean Valjean's resolve for the next part of his mission.

When he arrives at Bossuet's apartment he finds the tenant already in the process of boxing things up. "Moving so soon?" he asks by way of greeting.

Bossuet lets out a rueful laugh. "I can't sleep here."

"So I've heard," Jean Valjean says as he helps Bossuet lug out some of the closed boxes.

"I think it was because of the funny chest in the corner there," Bossuet says, gesturing to a musty portion of the apartment.

"A chest?"

"The sort to keep clothes in. We moved it down to storage, but in hindsight maybe we shouldn't have moved it at all."

"I see," Jean Valjean says. There is no need to ask if Bossuet has ever opened it; in fact something tells him that any further meddling might have led to even more horrific consequences. He cheerily helps Bossuet pack up the remainder of his belongings and bring them downstairs to where Joly will pick them up to move back into his and Musichetta's apartment. "By the way what happened to your neighbours?" he asks as they wait for Joly's car.

"Left for the province. I think they have less leaky lodgings there," Bossuet says. "I don't want to know what they might have heard."

'_Let it go untold of,' _Jean Valjean decides as he watches Joly's car pull up to the tenement. Theirs is a story he will have no part in, and perhaps is better resolved elsewhere.

After the young people leave, he asks for the concierge's permission to venture into the storeroom to look at the dangerous chest. The old lady shudders visibly at his request. "That vile thing! I had to get rid of it, it was taking up so much space!"

"What happened to it?" Jean Valjean asks.

"I burned it," the lady says, waving her hand in the air as if to ward off a lingering stench. "No one wanted to even pick it up!"

Jean Valjean shivers, more so when the lady shows him the backyard where she burned the chest. The concrete there has turned black, a vile indelible stain that remains as the sole testament to that which should never be disturbed. The shadow seemingly trails him as he slowly walks upstairs to the vacated apartment. He does not see the steps he takes as he repeats familiar prayers in his mind, letting the reassuring words ground him in the daylight.

He throws the apartment doors wide open to let in much needed air and light, something he doubts that Bossuet has had the time to do even on better days. He does the same to each window, banishing shadow after shadow in that tiny room. At last the place is bathed in sunshine, and it seems as if the very walls are drinking it all in. Jean Valjean finally takes a deep breath as he looks about; he has no idea if anyone will care to live in this place after, whether to bless it or sully it further, but for now the inexplicable calm here is enough.


End file.
